I might have continued in that half-aware state for a while longer, hurrying blindly through the freezing tunnels, looking to escape the fear that had taken me over as surely as the creature had taken Jayvin—but the sound of Jayvin’s voice brought me back to myself.
Before I tell you what he said, what happened, I want to make sure you understand—it wasn’t Jayvin Vod. It was his voice, his body, even some of his memories ... but I don’t believe the man who was my husband, your father, was aware at any point past the initial attack. It’s small consolation, perhaps, but I cling to it now as I have for the last fifteen years, and I believe it to be true. Jayvin Vod was already dead.
The shouts that rang in my helmet were incoherent at first. Unintelligible nonsense, words that weren’t words, punctuated by wild fits of emotion—laughing, crying, howls of rage, and of joy. I became aware of myself again, running, listening, lost in the passages of the comet but slowly regaining self-control. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I slowed down and began to choose my direction, searching for ascending tunnels.
The creature continued to babble in Jayvin’s voice, running through his emotions as carelessly as one might go through a box of tools. By the time I had come up with a course of action—get to the surface, call for help from the Tereshkova, reach the shuttlecraft—it had started using words and sentences pulled from Vod’s memories.
It was coming after me, I knew, it kept saying, “where,” again and again—and as it became more coherent, I realized that it had immersed itself in Vod in a way that was more terrifying to me—to any joined Trill—than the threat of pain or death. Neema, it was like some nightmare parody of zhian’tara, only instead of past hosts emerging to share and teach, the creature had separated Vod within Jayvin. The alien twisted through five lifetimes, dredging up memories of anger, working to express itself using the thoughts of Vod’s constituent personalities.
I heard Jayvin among the others—Timus, Kelin, Calila, Baret, and Devinel all spoke, but the phrases they used were chosen by the creature, all of the sentiments bitterly angry. I tried to speak with it at first, but it wouldn’t respond; although it was obviously trying to communicate, it seemed uninterested in what I had to say—and as I continued to wind through the barren tunnels, exhausted and afraid, it finally found its own voice. Much of what it had to say was as incomprehensible as its earlier outbursts, the violent emotions it spewed taking the form of wordless, raging screams. In the hours that I wandered the frozen underground, it told me enough for me to be grateful that Jayvin was no more.
Its grasp of language was still new, so I don’t know if its thoughts were translated with any precision. It talked until Jayvin was hoarse, drifting off into strange loops in which it repeated itself for moments at a time, but the thrust of its message was so deeply unsettling that I didn’t want to credit it as any more than delusional ramblings. It was an aberrant creature, a thing that referred to itself once as “the taker of gist.” I listened, and gradually I found out why it had attacked—and what it meant to do.
It wasn’t a symbiont at all. It was a parasite, a thing that dominated its hosts, feeding from them, and it said that it was “the first of many.” It said that its ship, controlled by “the veins,” was taking it to find “the weak ones.” Now that it had a host again, nothing would stop it from paving the way for those who would follow; it bragged that nothing could stop it. And as it poured its diseased feelings out, it expressed a depth of hatred and contempt for the Trill that seemed boundless. That it knew about us before we’d come to its ship, there was no question; how, I never found out.
I kept climbing, aware that my air wouldn’t last forever, knowing that I had to warn others about the creature before I was allowed the luxury of grief. In spite of my resolve, I cried steadily; hearing the parasite speak in your father’s voice was torture, and more than once, I didn’t think I could go on. What kept me moving, beyond the awareness that it would kill me if it found me, was the thought of my children. In the tumult of my feelings, I found a kind of relief that you were at home, safe, untouched by the horror that I was enduring.
It seemed that I had been running, walking, sobbing for a lifetime, the parasite’s words and feelings creating a shroud of ugliness around me. Perhaps that’s why, when I stumbled upon a dead end, I didn’t immediately turn around. Just a moment’s rest, I thought, sagging against the icy rock, so tired that I felt I might die from it. When the parasite started to laugh, I knew it had found me.
I turned to face it, knowing what I would see and yet still surprised by it—Jayvin Vod, my lover, my friend, the father of my children, walking toward me with a look of pure malice. Although I couldn’t see his, its mouth, I knew it was smiling. The parasite, the taker of gist, had won. I had no weapon, no strength, and only the vaguest desire to survive, so overwhelmed by the horror of the endless night that I simply waited. Waited for the thing to put an end to my torment.
I hardly knew I had spoken until it answered my whispered question, the thought that had been with me for much of that eternal chase.
“Why him, why not me?”
The Jayvin-thing tilted its head to one side, and took a step toward me, raising the phaser.
“Because he was closer,” it said.
I thought of you, of Gran, closed my eyes—and opened them again as the parasite crumpled, a grunt of shock emerging from its last second of consciousness, a huge dent in the back of its helmet.
Christopher Pike stood behind it, holding a slab of frozen rock in one shaking hand. The side of his suit was covered with ice, hastily applied handfuls of the same viscous fluid that had served as the parasite’s habitat—that had resealed Jayvin’s visor. He—we—had survived; it was over.
Although not wounded, Pike was freezing, almost out of air, and I was physically and emotionally wrung out—but somehow, we managed to get back to the shuttlecraft, carrying Jayvin’s body between us. I remember wondering how I could possibly go on, each step an exercise in force of will—but we did it. Pike piloted the shuttle back to the Tereshkova and ordered the captain to get us to Trill, maximum speed. You’ve probably deduced the rest of the story, but I want, I need to tell you. There are facts ... and then, there is truth.
I spent the journey home in sickbay, doing what little I could for Jayvin. We pried the helmet off, and a scan showed that the parasite had attached itself to Jayvin’s brain stem just inside the base of the skull, the only visible sign of its domination a tiny barb protruding from the back of his neck. The technology to detach the creature without killing Jayvin didn’t—doesn’t—exist. There was nothing we could do.
While the medical officer was tending to Pike, I scanned Vod, but the Starfleet equipment wasn’t able to tell me anything. For the trip home, we kept Jayvin sedated. I thought that at least we could keep him from suffering any more.
The best transplant surgeons were standing by when we beamed down to Trill, a host prepped, and a hastily convened session of the governing council waiting for me to tell them what had happened. I stayed with my husband instead, waiting for the doctors to examine him—though what they told me was as I’d expected. The symbiosis had dissolved, both Jayvin and Vod were dying. Still, I prayed for the symbiont, that we could transplant Vod and save Jayvin’s memories—but remembering the monster that had hunted me through the cold dark, a worse dread took hold of me. I ordered a scan of the symbiont’s neural patterns, and my fears were confirmed yet again—the parasite’s consciousness had joined with Vod’s, the union permanent and complete.
It was then that I met with the council members, and made my recommendation.
To transfer Vod to another host was unthinkable. There was no choice, none, except to let him die, and with him six lifetimes of knowledge, memories, and experiences—including Jayvin’s.
I stayed with them until it was over, and then I went home.
Christopher Pike was waiting there, sitting outside in the light of early dawn, looking as t
ired as I felt. He’d come to tell me what had happened with the comet, to reassure me that the immediate threat had passed—although to be honest, my thoughts were elsewhere. Selfish, perhaps, but I was still trying to understand that Jayvin was gone. When Pike asked after him, I couldn’t speak—I only shook my head, and struggled not to cry when I saw the sympathy in his eyes, as he told me how sorry he was.
I sat down next to him on the front step of our home, knowing that we had to talk, knowing that I had to bear my responsibilities as a leader—but all I wanted to do was collapse. Pike seemed to understand, keeping his speech brief and his tone gentle.
He told me that he’d spoken to Starfleet, and that they were most displeased; less than an hour before, three Trill ships had converged on the comet and blown it to so much vapor. I’d had nothing to do with the decision, although it didn’t surprise me overmuch; we still had our secret, you see. What we could have learned about the creature from studying the comet—it was apparently not as important as keeping our symbiotic nature to ourselves, or at least not to the councillors who’d called for the alien ship’s destruction.
Pike knew, of course. He’d heard the parasite’s ravings, all of it, and had deduced what was not obvious. He told me that he understood why our government had felt compelled to destroy the comet, and assured me that he would keep the entire incident classified on his end—our symbiotic nature would remain on a strictly need-to-know basis in Starfleet, until we decided otherwise. He told me that if Starfleet learned anything at all about the parasites, he would contact me—but made it clear that he felt the action of the Trill had been ill-advised.
I nodded, grateful that he was willing to keep our confidence, knowing he was right to reproach us, however gently he phrased it. I had no doubt that our own files would be sealed, but told him that I would also share whatever information we found from examining the remains of the parasite. I believed then that seeking out the deviant breed would become a priority for the Trill; I was naive, to say the least. It hadn’t occurred to me yet that the knowledge of a malevolent species so close to the symbionts would be unwelcome within our society; that no one would want to pursue a truth that carried implications of a connection between our precious symbionts and the thing that took Jayvin away.
I didn’t know, then, and I suppose Pike didn’t, either. I thanked him and he started to go—but stopped, turning back to ask a final question.
“Your people’s secret, Dr. Dax,” he said softly. “Is it that important? Was it worth all of those lives?”
I thought I was too tired to cry anymore, but I was wrong. He waited until I could compose myself, waited for my answer, and I knew that he wanted to hear me tell him that it was—it was what we both wanted to believe.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, and it wasn’t much of an answer, but there wasn’t any other.
He left me then to my final task, one that I hardly had the strength to complete—telling you and Gran that your father was dead.
It sounds like some childish attempt to avoid responsibility, but I didn’t mean to lie to you. I was adrift in my own pain, and wanted only to ease yours. I told you what I thought would save you from the intensity of loss that I felt, and by the time I understood the magnitude of what I’d done, I didn’t know how to take it back. And by then, I had constructed the foundation of denial that has been with me ever since.
Seven years later, you found out, and our estrangement began. As I said before, I found ways to rationalize, my position, my work—but politically, at least, nothing had changed. The powers that be had moved on to other matters, and I’d all but given up trying to convince the few council members who knew of the incident to take any kind of action. There is no official record of the parasite’s existence anywhere on Trill, no autopsy report, nothing. The council saw to that. I imagine that the records were destroyed along with the creature’s body, or all of the evidence was filed away somewhere, a dusty box in a dusty room, purposely forgotten.
And it seemed that Starfleet, too, had decided to treat the disastrous mission as an isolated event. I tried to contact Pike, more than once, but I couldn’t track him down; only a year after we met, he was badly wounded in some kind of radiation accident, and disappeared soon after. No one could even tell me if he was still alive.
As far as I know, the parasites have never resurfaced, but every day for the last fifteen years, I’ve watched and listened, doing what little one being can hope to do. I tried communicating with the symbionts, to ask them about the creature, but the younger ones knew nothing. And the oldest among them seemed not to hear my questions.
I am alone in my vigil, I believe, and am always praying that the thing was lying. That it was one of a kind. But surely I tell myself lies, too. You decide.
Four days ago, on my fifty-sixth birthday, I stepped down as head of the Trill Symbiosis Commission. For weeks, I’ve known that I would write this letter to you, that I couldn’t continue to use my position as a shield. That I wouldn’t. I’ve let too much time slip away already, my Neema, too much time regretting my mistakes and not letting myself understand that I was making a much worse one. When Gran died five years ago, never knowing any of this, I thought I would tell you then—that we would find comfort in each other, and the truth would have to come out—but somehow, we managed to avoid each other. To hold on to our own private sorrows, sharing nothing. Time now for me to end this loneliness, or at least to try.
I’ve accepted your anger as some kind of penance, as though I deserved to be hated by you for surviving. For coming home, when your father did not. I’ve been selfish and stupid, and in denying myself a loving relationship with my only surviving child, I’ve denied you.
I don’t expect for you to forgive me. Writing these thoughts, understanding that you’ve been alone with your pain and anger for eight years now ... I do understand, at least in part, and I’m not asking for you to throw aside your rightful feelings and embrace my apology. I’m not sure what I expect, or what I can even hope for, for myself. But for you—my daughter, for you, I hope for peace. I hope that you will accept that I love you, that no hour passes for me without you. Whether or not you choose to have me in your life, you are always in mine.
Forever,
Audrid Dax
NEEMA CYL TURNED the last page over, sighing, absently smoothing out the wrinkles and lines in the soft paper. No tears this time, although there was a heaviness in her throat that wouldn’t go away, and that was all right. In the weeks since she’d first read the letter, she’d felt the bitterness seeping away from her feelings of sorrow, and sorrow alone wasn’t such a terrible thing.
She checked the time and sighed again; it was getting late. Gingerly, she folded the rumpled pages and stood up from her desk, slipping the letter into the top drawer. The house was silent and still, the darkness outside making her feel that her small home was a sanctuary, a haven against the night, against the unknown. Since receiving Audrid’s letter, she couldn’t help but feel that the world—that the universe—was no longer safe. Knowing the truth had changed things, had created a sense of wariness in her that had never existed before ... but that wasn’t such a terrible thing, either. There was much to be done, and learning to be watchful was the first step.
She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. There would be time for that later. Tonight, she had other business, and it was already late. Maybe too late. Neema looked at the clock again—
—And the door chimed softly at her, and she couldn’t get there fast enough. Another deep breath, a rush of belated fear that too much had been lost, and the door slid open.
The heaviness in her broke apart, the tears spilling out as Audrid, older, stronger, gazed lovingly into her eyes.
Eyes like my father’s, Neema thought, and stepped forward, both of them reaching out, both of them crying.
“Mother,” Neema whispered, and they stood in the open doorway for a long time, each unwilling to let the other go.
&nb
sp; TORIAS
“Life’s too short to deprive yourself of the simple pleasures.”
—Torias Dax
“Facets”
Susan Wright
Susan Wright is the author of several Star Trek novels, including The Best and the Brightest; Star Trek: Voyager—Violations; Star Trek: The Next Generation—Sins of Commission; Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Tempest; the two-volume series, The Badlands, featuring all the Star Trek crews; and the two-volume mirror universe saga, Dark Passions.
Wright received her masters in art history from New York University in 1989 and has been a full-time writer in New York City since 1991. She’s written a number of non-fiction books on art and popular culture, such as Destination Mars: In Art, Myth, and Science (Viking); UFO Headquarters (St. Martin’s Press); and New York City in Photographs: 1850-1945 (Barnes & Noble).
Wright’s work has appeared in magazines such as Cosmopolitan and Redbook. She has also written comic books, including several for Magic: The Gathering, and the Timewalker series. She was a contributing writer and editor on the CD-ROM action/strategy game Magic: The Gathering—BattleMage.
Infinity
Susan Wright
TORIAS DAX VERIFIED the heading of the shuttlecraft. All systems were go. “I’m at full impulse power,” he reported to control. “Engaging transwarp engines.”
The starfield turned into broad streaks radiating from the middle of the viewscreen as the shuttle began the transition from one-quarter light-speed to warp 10, bypassing conventional warp speed entirely. Torias was pressed back into the pilot’s seat. He reached out to adjust the warp frequency as it began to fluctuate within the dilithium crystals.
STAR TREK: DS9 - The Lives of Dax Page 16
